Live Wire
by writerofberk
Summary: Hiccup was cold, so cold... Modern AU. One-shot.
1. Chapter 1

_**Live Wire**_

 **A/N: Oh, Lord, where did this come from...um...well, the first sentence just kind of jumped into my head, and from there, I came up with the rest of the story. I've been dealing with some personal shit lately, too, so this was a really good way for me to vent. It'll probably make 0 sense to the people reading it, so if that's the case, and you hate it, well...I warned you.**

 **It's been so long since I wrote a story in this style, too, you know? I used to have this style all the time. I think my storytelling has improved, because I am not good at telling stories like this. I'm not. My inadequacy actually hurts me xD But it's okay. It was a vent fic.**

* * *

On December 24th, Hiccup became a live wire.

It had started small – sometime back in summer, but the season didn't matter, had never mattered, because despite the sweltering July heat, he'd felt _cold_. It was a constant feeling, the cold was; it wasn't the kind that made his skin prickle or the tiny gold-ish hairs on his body stand straight up, and he knew putting on a jacket or turning up the heat wouldn't solve anything.

This was the kind of cold that ate away at him, feasting on his bones; it was the chill that came with being invisible. Other people looked through him; his father forgot he was there until he made dinner; when his father was home, the whitewashed walls recognized no other resided there. He was gray, like a ghost. If he made a noise, nobody knew he was there. He shivered when there was no snow. Nobody noticed when he wore his winter clothing in summer. Hiccup was _cold_ , so cold.

* * *

Hiccup wanted warmth.

The silver taps gushed water, and when he stepped beneath it, his nerve endings lit up. It was not warmth; it was not heat; it was fire, lighting him up from the inside out, scalding him. It hurt, it seared, it burned, and it felt so _good_. He always liked taking a long time in the bathroom – the light shining from underneath the door let his father know he was _there_ – and this time, it was nearly impossible to force himself to step out of the tiny room. Steam filled the space, and it was suffocating and thick and he couldn't breathe until he exited the bathroom.

When he looked down at his arms, they were raw and red and burned.

He left his jacket at home that day.

* * *

His shadow was there even when he turned out the light.

Hiccup could see it, out of the corner of his eye, the outline of a boy, sitting in the darkened corner of the room, hands on his knees, watching the person he belonged to. Hiccup smiled. Somebody saw him. Somebody saw him. Maybe his shadow was there because it sensed it wasn't needed any longer. He was fading, and he was his own shadow.

* * *

He was shadow until he was burned again.

His arm lit up like a thousand scorching suns, and he was alive. His wrist seared and throbbed and hurt, but it felt so good. The skin was red and angry and raw, and he wore long sleeves in August to cover it up. He used cool water grudgingly. He used every bit of warmth he possibly could. He was not a shadow.

* * *

Nobody saw him.

He burned with secrets. He brimmed with excitement and ecstasy, and always, he told no one. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to sleep without the flames licking up his arms. He wore his sleeves long, and beneath the blisters throbbed like a badge. He knew just the right way to lie down, and his arm never hurt when he lay like that, and he didn't exist and nobody saw him and he burned with this secret.

This was the best thing that ever happened to him.

* * *

The leaves were turning red. They burned fiery red, and glowed ember orange and flamed bright yellow. They took Hiccup's breath away. They were like fire. And when they fell from the trees, and the wind blew bitter and frigid, and he strode the empty rooms of his empty house, he was warm. His arm burned and his heart burned right along with it. He was on fire, and he would never stop.

He turned the water completely hot every time he washed his hands. He burned them. He boiled water once without the intention of ever using it, and when it was done, he turned the stove off and put his hand in it. Pink blisters exploded up his palms, and for days afterward, it hurt to hold his pencil. Nobody noticed except his English teacher – damn her – and he told her he'd gotten it from a cooking accident. He was higher than the clouds afterward. He liked lying. He was good at it.

He learned to recognize the different kinds of burns. He knew how to treat them. He was on fire, and he would never stop.

* * *

His reflection stopped smiling before he did.

He was fine.

He had no jacket.

He was warm.

* * *

Astrid was pretty. She was beautiful. She was the color in his world. She used to light him up from the inside out with feelings he didn't even know how to describe. She spoke to him when he was putting away his books. He smiled at her because he didn't know what else to do.

She'd spoken with him about chemistry – she wasn't that good, from what he'd gathered – and then she'd reached for his arm and he'd stepped away. He knew she was confused, but there was no way to tell her the truth. His secret was his, and it belonged to him and he belonged to it. Astrid didn't light him up anymore; this did. She wasn't the color in his world; this was.

He was higher than the clouds again.

* * *

Christmas was coming. He saw wreaths appearing in shop windows, and tiny white lights blinked from the rooftops of other houses. Men in red suits and fake white beards began appearing in malls, and Hiccup smiled at them when they passed, because he had nothing and everything, and his wrists hurt every second of every day.

He was on fire. He was on top of the world. He was perfect.

* * *

Hiccup guarded his secret with his life, and it was visible on his skin. Puckered pink burn marks littered the forbidden area beneath his sleeves, and they'd been there since July. They would never fade, but that was okay. All they did was show that he was visible. That he was on fire. That he existed. That he was warm.

He liked his scars. Ghosts didn't have scars.

* * *

Astrid talked to him again. She saw his red palms. He told her it was from washing dishes.

He was beginning to wonder if it wasn't the lying he liked so much.

* * *

He remembered a time when his skin used to be pale. Now it was red, permanently red; his hand burned and he lay just right and his arms didn't hurt but he still sobbed into his sheets.

* * *

Astrid wasn't pretty anymore.

He wondered how badly it would hurt if he burned his face on purpose.

* * *

The day before Christmas Eve, Hiccup lay down in the snow.

It was eight o' clock at night, and the snow had been coming down all day and now it lay in thick glittering piles of pure white, and it was still coming down, so he stepped outside and lowered his burning body to the ground, and turning his gaze to the sky.

The sky was wide and black, and it was funny because even though it was black it was producing little white flakes. Hiccup laughed, even though nobody could hear. Everyone else was locked up safely in their houses – _their warm houses_ …

He had no jacket. He was warm.

He could see figures moving in front of the window of the house across the street, opening presents and exchanging candies, laughing as they unwrapped gifts.

He shivered.

He was warm.

He wondered if anybody would notice if he went up in flames where he lay.

* * *

On December 24th, Hiccup was cold.

There was no Christmas tree in the house. There were no lights. They had no stockings or presents. He didn't know where his father had gone. It didn't matter.

He was so cold. When he took off his shirt, all he could see was pink. He left his shirt in his bedroom and paced the kitchen floor without anything covering him. He was so cold. He wondered if ghosts could feel cold.

He wondered if ghosts had fathers that abandoned them.

He wondered if he was a ghost.

The front door was still closed. When he put a hand on his torso, he touched only bare skin. He looked at the stove.

He paced a little more, and turned all the eyes on. He watched them glow orange. He wondered how hot they needed to be before they'd burn him up and send him down to hell.

He looked down at his arms. They were burned and pink and raw. When he touched the newer ones, they still hurt. They weren't hot. He pushed away from the stove and kept pacing the kitchen. He could see snow falling from the dining room window. There was still only bare skin where a shirt should be.

He turned around and slammed a hand down on the stove eye.

It burned him. It set his nerve endings alight; it ignited him; it scorched him, seared him, singed him; the eye sizzled when he pulled his hand away, and his palm pulsed, angry and red and searing. He wondered if he would die if he crawled inside the oven and shut the door.

He wondered if Santa was real.

He hoped his father would walk through that door.

* * *

He wondered how badly it would hurt.

* * *

He didn't know what to do.

* * *

He slammed his hand down. It throbbed.

* * *

He couldn't stop crying.

* * *

He wanted to lay down in the snow again.

* * *

He wanted Astrid.

* * *

He wanted fire.

* * *

There was no damn way he'd be able to hold a pencil come January.

* * *

He would never have to find the right way to lie again.


	2. AN

**A/N: So, I finally got around to looking at this story again and realizing about ninety percent of you guys were really confused upon reading it. I mean, I did speak in kind of vague terms throughout the whole fic, and I'm happy with the way it turned out, but I see now I should probably explain things a little better, just so you guys have a clearer view of what's really going on. I don't want to say Hiccup's crazy in this, because he's not exactly…I mean, he's…unstable. I guess you could say. So I tried to write the story as he sees it happening – so at times, the writing is very simple and childish because that's what he does in this fic, he simplifies things so they're easier to handle.**

 **So basically the "cold" and the "heat" are metaphors in the story – the "cold" is numbness and the "heat" is happiness. So: "Hiccup was cold" is basically "Hiccup was numb, Hiccup didn't feel anything". But Hiccup can't deal with what he's feeling in such a clear-cut way, so he thinks of it in terms of temperature. But it goes a little farther than that, because he hates the numbness, the loneliness, so much that he tries everything just to feel something – the line about "he wore his winter clothing in summer" is a metaphor for his attempts to find peace, but ties into the warmth theme. Lines like that are pretty common in the story:**

" **He shivered when there was no snow" – he can't feel anything even though he knows he should**

" **Hiccup wanted warmth" – Hiccup wanted to feel something**

" **He left his jacket at home that day" – he found the way to make himself feel, and felt no need to try with anything else.**

 **So when he burns himself, he responds to the physical sensation with interest, excitement, even – the burns didn't just pain him, they helped him feel actual emotions again, and this brings him hope. He connects the dots to the physical pain and thinks he needs to keep doing it to keep feeling things. For awhile, it actually** _ **is**_ **a solution – admittedly an unhealthy one, but a solution nonetheless – and at one point, his teacher even questions his burned hands.**

" **He boiled water once without the intention of ever using it, and when it was done, he turned the stove off and put his hand in it. Pink blisters exploded up his palms, and for days afterward, it hurt to hold his pencil. Nobody noticed except his English teacher – damn her – and he told her he'd gotten it from a cooking accident. He was higher than the clouds afterward; he liked lying. He was good at it."**

 **A good liar, he might have been, but it wasn't the deception Hiccup found himself enjoying – rather, it was the experience of having someone to lie to. I address this later in the fic, when he thinks it "wasn't the lying he liked so much", but I never expounded upon it, so if there was any confusion there, that's understandable.**

 **Now here's where things get really interesting, on this line right here:**

" **His reflection stopped smiling before he did."**

 **After awhile, the burning lost something for Hiccup – it was a solution, but it caused more problems than it was worth, but he won't admit it, and he won't stop. So he starts lying to himself instead, pretending to feel happiness when he doesn't. So when he says, "His reflection stopped smiling before he did. He was fine", it's his twisted way of saying he's happy, despite even the mirror telling him otherwise. And of course, the "jacket/warmth" part of that scene is his way of saying he won't search for any other, maybe healthier, way to feel things, but he's happy – "warm" – nonetheless.**

 **In the very next scene, we see Hiccup replacing even Astrid with the burning in his brain – then, in the next, discussing the approaching Christmas.**

" **Men in red suits and fake white beards began appearing in malls, and Hiccup smiled at them when he passed because he had nothing and everything…"**

 **The "nothing" was his way of addressing his father and the kids at school and whatnot – his father never notices him and he's losing any feeling he might have held for Astrid, and no one else besides his English teacher has been mentioned as even looking at him throughout the year. The "everything" is obviously the burning.**

 **A few scenes later, we see him realizing that it's having someone to lie to that he likes, when Astrid questions his blistered hands – seems to be a week of breakthroughs for the kid, because the very next scene says,**

"… **now (his skin) was red, permanently red; his hand burned, and he lay just right and his arms didn't hurt, but he still sobbed into his sheets."**

 **Meaning he finally realizes that he honestly feels horrible, still, despite the burning and the lies he tells himself, and despite the very real possibility that they may have even worked at one point.**

 **The next scene is a bit warped, perhaps more so than the others, by Hiccup's view – "Astrid wasn't pretty anymore. He wondered how badly it would hurt if he burned his face on purpose."**

 **Astrid really didn't get a lot of attention, despite this scene – but the story was never about her. So, while this scene is supposed to convey that she finally connected the dots and suspected self-injury or maybe child abuse due to the burns littering Hiccup's hands, I never took her character arc any farther than that. And when Hiccup says "she wasn't pretty anymore" – well, he never intended anyone to figure out his secret. He just liked that she was concerned enough to ask about him the first time. And she may have gone farther and reported him to the school nurse or something – all we really know is that this has twisted Hiccup's view of her to the point where she's completely beyond his affection at the current moment.**

 **Shit gets pretty real in the next scene; despite his realization that he wasn't happy earlier in the fic, when he mentioned crying himself to sleep, he starts denying it again right here – right after Astrid made the connection, actually. So we see him laying down in the snow – "lowering his burning body to the ground" – and watching the flakes fall. I obviously got a little carried away with the metaphors in this scene. Since the "cold" and "winter" and things like that were meant to convey sadness or numbness, this is sort of the scene where Hiccup rejects the realization that he still feels like shit. So he is both literally and figuratively laying down in the snow in this scene, and watching other people's sillehoutte through their windows – and even makes it a point to call the homes across the street "their warm houses", as if even the place he lives is cold. And to him, it probably is. His denial reaches new heights when he starts to shiver and tells himself he's warm – or better yet, when he "wondered if anybody would notice if he went up in flames where he lay".**

 **But Christmas Eve is really his breaking point – it's sort of where everything hits him at once, when he realizes that nothing has changed and he's still in the exact same place he was at the start of the year, and he's not happy and his father never notices him and now he's gone and chased Astrid off and started hurting himself, and he starts to think that maybe the burning wasn't such a good idea. He realizes that the "high" he experienced wasn't worth it, but by this point he considers himself wasted maybe, or damaged, and starts thinking it's too late to turn around or go back or stop hurting himself, because he figures it's already too late for him. The story's ending is a bit unclear, but the closing line is meant to mean he killed himself – how he did it is never mentioned.**

 **So that's it! I hope this cleared things up for you! I tried to deal with the most confusing lines in the story, but I'm not so sure I achieved it. If I helped any of you at all, feel free to tell me!**

 **\- .ryder**


End file.
